


Today

by stephanericher



Category: Kuroko no Basuke | Kuroko's Basketball
Genre: M/M, midokise week 2k15
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-10
Updated: 2015-07-10
Packaged: 2018-04-08 13:42:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,076
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4307286
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stephanericher/pseuds/stephanericher
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Home is the perfect place for teasing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Today

**Author's Note:**

> midokise week day 4: domestic

Shintarou is not a morning person. He’s grumpy all day, but in the minutes after he’s just woken up he’s even worse than usual, snappy and angry and impatient with even his own routines—if he could only make the coffee just a bit faster, if only his teeth would brush themselves. And instead of just sighing and getting on with it, he mutters things under his breath and ignores Ryouta (which most of the time is probably for the better). Sometimes, he chooses to notice things or instead of ignoring Ryouta’s chatter (because he really can’t help but talk this early in the morning, even if it’s to the human equivalent of a chair that his boyfriend becomes) responds in a growl that crescendos into a roar that Ryouta just doesn’t want to have to deal with.

Today he’s chosen to look Ryouta up and down through the glasses that are crooked on his nose, with a piece of buttered toast clutched in one hand and newspaper in the other (because he has to read before he watches his Oha-Asa show or else she apparently won’t predict a good day for him—Ryouta has pointed out multiple times that she still places Cancer last when he reads the paper, but Shintarou always ignores him when he does).

“You’re wearing my sweatpants.”

Ryouta nods and yawns. Unlike Shintarou, his work day doesn’t start until the late hours of the morning, so he can afford to be half-dressed and lazy right now. He shaves and eats breakfast with Shintarou, but he reserves his alone time for the long beauty routine, the shower and makeup and hairdo and the process of choosing an outfit even when he’s got a photo shoot a few hours later where they’ll scrub him clean and doll him up over again and give him fresh clothes. And it’s not that Shintarou doesn’t deserve to see him at his best, but short of Ryouta waking up several hours before Shintarou and then having a few hours of free time where taking a nap would mean messing up his look there’s no conceivable way he could get there before Shintarou leaves and the important thing right now is that they’re spending time together and awake (well, if Shintarou’s state can be called awake). So he can and does wear whatever he slept in to the breakfast table, including the pants he’s been wearing since last night, grabbed off the floor and deemed more-than-acceptable, soft and warm against his skin (because Shintarou is as particular as Ryouta is about fabric). It’s not the first time he’s done it, or even the first time Shintarou’s noticed—but it’s the first time Shintarou’s actually said anything about it (usually he just raises his eyebrows and says nothing).

“Why?” Shintarou demands.

“Why not?” says Ryouta. “They’re relatively clean.”

“You have pajamas. Yours fit you better.”

Ryouta shrugs. “Don’t you think it’s hot when I wear your clothes?”

Shintarou stutter-steps back, almost smashing the piece of toast in his fist. “I don’t—I mean, really.”

His face is flushing brighter and he almost drops the newspaper. Ryouta grins and leans in, propping his face up on his elbow.

“Or maybe you’d prefer it if I took them off…?”

Ryouta thumbs the waistband, exposing a centimeter of his pale skin to Shintarou’s eyes, and Shintarou flushes redder.

“I…Ryouta…I have to go.”

“Not for another ten or fifteen minutes,” Ryouta murmurs, leaning even farther forward and batting his eyelashes. “Shintarou…”

(They’ve done it quicker, out of necessity and Shintarou holding himself back for too long, in riskier situations and tighter spaces—but being in their apartment, on their bed, will doubtless make this last longer, and as much as Ryouta would enjoy a quickie it’s not what either of them really needs right now.)

“Oha-Asa is on,” says Shintarou, turning toward the TV in a way that’s just short of picking his head up with his hands and twisting it on his neck away from Ryouta—it’s as far as they’re going to get this morning before Shintarou’s show is over and he kisses Ryouta goodbye too quick for Ryouta to make it really last (or before he can himself) and then he’s out the door.

* * *

 

The physical stresses of work, of standing in one awkward position after the other for far too long, roll off Ryouta’s shoulders under Shintarou’s beautiful, careful hands, soft fingertips firmly kneading and teasing out the knots in Ryouta’s back and neck and sides and shoulders. He moans as his muscles relax, and Shintarou’s fingers momentarily tense up before continuing. Ryouta turns his head to look up at Shintarou’s face, the pout on his pretty lips and the furrow of his brow.

“Don’t twist your neck; it’ll get stiff like that.”

“I want to see you.”

“You can see me later,” Shintarou says. “Be patient.”

Ryouta complies, turning his face back into the pillow. He’s missed his chance to tell Shintarou to treat his back like a keyboard (because the attention he pays to the keys—even when his face is buried in a score that’s unreadable to Ryouta, with the caress of his touch, and the sounds they make in response, delicate or forceful or both or something in between—is exactly what Ryouta wants and needs right now) but Shintarou’s doing it anyway, or at least that’s what it feels like, a finger here and one there, sliding up and down the octaves of his back.

When Shintarou’s finally done, Ryouta rolls over onto his back, relishing in the softness of the mattress underneath him and pulling Shintarou down next to him.

“Did you think about me all day?” Ryouta asks.

Shintarou half-smiles that way he does when it looks like he’s trying to frown but can’t force himself. So that’s a yes—Ryouta kisses him on the nose.

“Dinner will be here soon,” Shintarou says.

(Dinner is, as usual, delivery from the place down the street which is reasonably healthy and affordable and is more reliably edible than the stuff they try to make.) Ryouta laces his fingers through Shintarou’s and yawns.

“You’re not wearing the sweatpants anymore,” says Shintarou.

“Well,” says Ryouta. “I could take these pants off…would you like that?”

“Yes,” Shintarou breathes, squeezing his hand.

The buzzer rings; their food is here. But Ryouta’s sure this time they’ll be able to pick up right where they left off.


End file.
